


Sweet Belle of Mine

by Hikari_no_Chibi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle - Freeform, Rumbelle Secret Santa, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:32:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2813753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hikari_no_Chibi/pseuds/Hikari_no_Chibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumford Goldfellow is an international rock star; Rum Gold is the man behind the guitar. When he demands a secluded spot for his next album, the label sends him to Storybrooke. Unfortunately, no one could predict what would happen when he meets the world's biggest sweetheart, Belle. Rumbelle Secret Santa prompt: Rocker Gold Bakery Owner Belle. For: TheSassyWallFlower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

Apart from Wonderland Records and the newest addition to his real estate portfolio, Storybrooke had little and less recommend itself to Rumford Goldfellow. It was quiet and it was small. Nobody recognized him and nobody cared if he dressed in worn out flannel and blue jeans every day.

In other words, it was exactly what he'd asked for. Damn him.

If he had to make another HOOK record – and his manager assured him that he did – then he had stipulations: an environment free of fans, press, and junkies, within easy driving distance of his son. Killian Jones' handsome face in the tabloids might sell records, but Rumford Goldfellow wrote hits, and the label was only too happy to accommodate Rumford Goldfellow's demands.

Rumford bloody Goldfellow – what the hell had he been thinking? But that was the stage name he'd come up with at 17, when he thought it sounded fancy instead of cringe-worthy. It was better than boring Rum Gold – name picked by an alcoholic, if ever there was one. Rumford Goldfellow: The Man Who Wrote the Golden Riffs, said Rolling Stone. The Best Musician You Never Heard Of, said GQ. Pricks.

HOOK's publicists were going insane with Jones off the grid, but Rumford Goldfellow paid his manager very well to ignore their incessant calls and texts.

He should have been happy in Storybrooke. But Neal was still on the fence about bringing Henry up, and no matter how much he complained about being caught in the background of Killian's mob, having no photo shoots to sulk through and no assistants to wrangle him left Gold wondering what it was he actually did all day.

He shouldered his favorite guitar (an ancient acoustic that he almost always carried) and wandered toward the little town's Main Street. On a whim, he pulled out his mobile. To his surprise, Neal answered on the first ring.

"Papa, I told you we'd have to think about it, okay?" sighed his son, without preamble.

"Bloody hell, at this rate the lad's not even going to recognize me. You could at least let me take him out for an ice cream," Rum growled. He should have known better than to call his son again, but almost everyone else in his contacts list was a professional contact or someone else in the industry.

"I'm sorry, Papa, but you're a little unstable for a kid his age."

"Unstable? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I'm almost 50 years old and the music's selling. It's not like it was back then."

Neal didn't say anything. He didn't like to talk about his childhood, but Rum could never figure out why. They'd done alright through the worst of times, and he was practically rolling in it these days.

Maybe he hadn't known how to transition from pop-rocker to Papa overnight, but he'd done his best to compromise between Rum Gold and Rumford Goldfellow. And he kept making music – even when nobody was listening. It hadn't been easy.

But what else could he have done? One year playing lukewarm covers on a cruise ship still paid better than a year of the other work he was qualified for, and a little bit of fame could open doors for the boy that mere hard work wouldn't. Neal never went to bed hungry, which was a far sight better than his own childhood.

What did the boy have to complain about? Plenty, as it happened. The lad had left home for college at seventeen, a full year earlier than his peers (which made his Papa unspeakably proud), and had not returned home for the holidays.

"Look, just let him come up for the weekend," Gold wheedled when the silence started to bother him. "It's a sleepy little town in Maine: lobsters and light houses, that sort of thing. I'll send a driver for him. Nobody from the press has caught wind of it, and the studio's clean. No chance of your Uncle Mick shooting up in the toilets."

"You'll be recording for 10 hours a day," Neal groaned. "What's Henry supposed to do in there all afternoon? I can't let you keep him up until 4AM every night. That's not how we're raising him."

"You and Emma could come along, then!"

His son choked back a laugh.

"Neal, please. I know I've been out of Henry's life for a long time—"

"Five years."

"Yes, but I was on tour," he defended. Agreeing to flexible tour dates was a mistake he wouldn't be repeating. The bastards kept adding new cities behind his back.

"I did offer to fly you all out to Tokyo for the holidays," Gold insisted. "Henry's almost eleven now; he deserves to know his granddad."

"It's not a good time for us to leave town," Neal hedged.

"If Emma doesn't want to see me, then you and Henry could come up without her. Or I could come down. "

"Papa, you remember what happened the last time you came here…"

Gold winced. He did remember. It was right before Henry was born, and he'd accused Emma (who'd threatened to arrest him, and could have) of every vile, inflammatory thing he wanted to say to Neal's mum: greed, manipulation, entrapment…. The list went on. Emma hadn't deserved it – even Neal's mother wouldn't have deserved it – but it was Millie's smug, perfume-drenched ghost that haunted him when he saw the swell of Emma's abdomen.

He and Neal had visited (once or twice with a toddling Henry in tow) for a few tentative birthdays here and there, but he'd never been invited back into their home again.

"Well how about next weekend, then?" Gold asked, keeping the disappointment from overwhelming him. "Or the one after that? We'll be here for a month or so, at the rate we're going."

"We could probably work something out a couple of weeks from now. I'll talk to Emma about it, alright?"

"I'd pay for everything," Gold tried.

He heard his son sigh. "Yeah, I know you would, Papa. Look, I've got to go now – Henry's getting out of soccer practice soon. Bye."

The line went dead. It was at times like this that Gold desperately missed telephones with dial tones and cork-screw wires tethering them. They were always so satisfying to slam down, and they didn't cost three hundred dollars to replace. He threw the little plastic brick at the sidewalk anyway; the screen didn't even have the decency to chip.

So this was his life: a son he barely saw, a furious daughter-in-theory (Neal seemed to think she refused to officially become his daughter-in-law just to spite Gold after their row), a grandson who played soccer instead of footy, and a phone he couldn't break. Welcome to the 21st Century.

"You look like you could use a cupcake," said a feminine voice from right beside him.

Gold jumped in surprise, tried not to topple when he came down on his bad ankle (which still played-up at odd times), and over-compensated by swinging his guitar case. In the process, he managed to upend whatever the little girl was carrying.

Had she overheard something she shouldn't have? This was not a moment that he wanted to share with the public. Past-Prime Rocker Assaults Child – TMZ would have a field day misinterpreting that one. He'd be lucky if he didn't end up on a sex offender list.

It was on the tip of his tongue to chastise the chit for sneaking up on him, but she was already talking at him.

"Sorry! Sorry!" She wobbled on towering heels that led to perfect, creamy legs. Even in shoes like that, the top of her brown curls barely reached his nose, and suddenly Gold wasn't so sure what he was seeing. That was definitely not a little girl.

"Are you alright? You jumped a mile!"

She wasn't even looking at him as she spoke, already preoccupied by bending down to get her ribbon-wrapped box off the ground. Gold paused his tirade long enough to guess her age: early twenties, most likely. But he wasn't a tall man, and even in towering heels, this woman was short enough to be in middle school.

She flipped the box over, opened the top, and – with a resigned look on her face – took stock of the smeared mess.

"I didn't mean to sneak up on you," she said, finally lifting her eyes to his. They were blue: seriously blue. Blue like… like something magically, electrically blue. Well, lyrics had never been his strong point. What were you supposed to say in these situations? Bugger off, my leg hurts, my son hates me, and if you overheard any of that I will sue you, would not go over well. Your eyes are really blue was equally unlikely to impress; odds were good that she already knew.

He was spared making more than a stammering attempt at a reply when she saw him stumble a bit on his bad side. Damn! As if this weren't already embarrassing as hell for him.

"Oh, no, are you hurt? Do you need me to help you carry that?"

Suddenly there was a small hand wrapped around his, gently offering to carry his guitar case. Gold tore it away from her and snarled that he was fine.

She blinked up at him with those wonderfully blue eyes, then smiled and offered him the ruined box again.

"They may not be pretty, but they taste good," she said when he didn't react. To demonstrate her point, she dragged her finger through the whipped, yellow icing on the lid and popped a dollop into her mouth.

"Do you habitually sneak up on strange men and offer them pastries?" Gold managed, backing away. It only took him a few moments to find his equilibrium again.

"Not really. But I had a baker's dozen, and you really looked like you could use a pick-me-up. I hope your phone's not broken. Are you sure you're alright? " She pushed the box forward again.

"Yes," he grumbled. His leg would be fine; it just took him a moment to balance again.

She beamed at him. Probably she should have been more concerned for herself – in those heels, if he'd done more than knock her cupcakes aside, she'd probably need an ambulance.

Gold looked helplessly down at the sticky mess she was offering. Reluctantly, he took one of the unappetizing lumps, smearing icing all over the back his hand in the process, and having no choice but to lick it off. It was good: vanilla and lemon, with a hint of creaminess.

"So are you from Ireland or Scotland?" Blue Eyes asked as she helped herself to a cupcake as well. The stickiness didn't seem to bother her a bit.

"Scotland," Gold replied. It was a common enough question – the accent was a bit of a giveaway, no matter how much he'd toned it down over the decades. Apparently Americans couldn't understand what he said when he spoke like a proper Scot, so he'd learned to subvert it when he crossed the pond. Back then, you had to do what would sell, and that excuse stretched to any number of sins.

"Which part?"

"Glasgow." It was really difficult to sound cross when your mouth was full of something delicious. "It's a big city in the west," he added. Most Americans didn't even realize that Scotland was big enough to have more than one place: it was all North England to them.

"I'm from Melbourne," Blue Eyes confessed.

Gold was surprised. "Australia? You don't have much of an accent."

"No, we moved here when I was still a teenager – so I sort of phased it out at school, to fit in – but it wasn't very strong to start with. We're not all g'day mate and vegemite," she teased. "But you don't sound anything like the other West Highland accents I've heard."

"I guess we all adapt," Gold grinned, letting his full brogue slip through for a moment. Then he looked down at the ruined cakes. "I'll replace them," he offered, reaching for his wallet. "How much did they cost?"

He always had cash on him. Always.

"Oh, I couldn't let you… these were just something for Granny's. I can get more in a minute."

He'd wrecked a present for her grandmother? Well there was your evening headline: Rocker Granddad Rocks Grandma's Big Day. Alright, so it wouldn't be that bad. He was hardly front page news these days, and Blue Eyes was very beautiful.

"I'll replace them," Gold insisted.

"Well…" She looked unsure. Then, a wide grin lit up her face. "Do you have a few minutes?"

For Blue Eyes, he did.

"So how much do I owe you?" her new friend asked for the tenth time since she'd met him. Belle stifled a groan as she opened the side door of her shop and led him in.

"I already told you I'm not taking your money," Belle chuckled, excusing herself into the back room. She emerged a moment later and handed him a pair of plastic gloves, then ducked back in.

"If you want to replace them, I'll let you help, though," she called out to him.

Belle smiled and nodded at Astrid, one of her part-time workers currently occupied with a tray of the somewhat complicated lemon curd cupcakes they'd been piloting. Rum might not do well with those.

They would go with something simpler, she decided: yellow cake and chocolate. Anyone could handle that. She grabbed a tray of fully cooled cupcakes and a bag of chocolate icing, and then took both out to the small work station behind her display case.

When she tried to hand him the frosting, he looked at it like it was full of… well, of something brown and icky, frankly. Belle switched to the practical approach instead.

"This tip is really easy to use," she said, demonstrating a simple swirl with the bag. "All you do is squeeze and twist."

"So… you work here?" he said, still not accepting the bag when she offered it again. "You won't be in trouble with your manager for this?"

"Nah, the boss is just some crazy book lady who likes to daydream," Belle teased.

He didn't laugh.

"I'm kidding. I own the place, actually. It's Belle's Bakery – I know, boring name. But I'm Belle. Belle French."

"You certainly have more books than baked goods," he observed, glancing around the place.

"Well I set out for this to be a used book store, but the bank didn't like my business plan, so it sort of evolved into a reading cafe; we only do two or three different pastries a day, otherwise I'd never get any sleep. This place is my pride and joy – Leroy just finished the renovations a couple of years ago. It used to be a flower shop."

She wasn't afraid to let a little pride into the declaration: her cafe was lovely, and she knew it. It was warm and cozy, with a smattering of tables and arm chairs, and scores of used books crammed into shelves that covered almost every wall in the space.

"This is the part where you're supposed to tell me your name," Belle teased again, nudging him with her elbow. He stiffened.

"It's Rum," he scowled, as though he expected her to comment. "Rum Gold."

If that was supposed to be a joke, Belle didn't get it. She let it pass, and demonstrated on another cupcake.

He still wouldn't accept the icing bag.

"I thought it would be fun," Belle told him. "But if you really don't want to frost cupcakes with me, that's alright."

To her surprise, he set down his guitar case – that thing packed a punch – and gave it a try. He was very serious about the whole process, and very quiet.

"Are you a musician?" she asked. The guitar case made that fairly obvious, but Belle didn't know what else to say.

He rolled his eyes, but kept icing the cupcakes. They looked… edible. Not as pretty or delicate, but filling and tasty all the same. She'd probably have to ice another dozen for Granny's, but he'd made the gesture – which was kind.

"Well, of course you are," Belle babbled. "Sorry. I'm really putting my foot in it today."

A massive blob leaked out of the bag, now strangled in his hands, but he still didn't say anything. Great, she'd offended him, and she already knew for sure that he'd been having a bad day. Sugar.

"Let me start again – hi, I'm Belle and this is my cafe. Thanks for helping me with the cupcakes. What kind of music do you play, Mr. Gold?"

Rum seemed totally out of his depth, but his death grip relaxed and the frown cleared from his face. Apart from telling her a little about Scotland and offering to buy her more cupcakes, he hadn't volunteered any information about himself yet.

"Rock, mostly. And a lot of other people's rubbish, frankly," he added with a humorless chuckle.

"Oh, are you in a cover band?" A cover band would make sense. The Rabbit Hole had cover bands in and out all the time. "You know, you can perform your own songs here any time you like. I have open mic nights and poetry slams from time to time."

He was really staring at her now, and Belle felt as though she'd done something wrong again.

"I'm sorry if I'm saying something wrong," Belle said. "I just sort of assumed… one of the local artists comes in here to play whenever the Mayor has him booted from the park. I didn't expect to get something for nothing, if that's what you're thinking. I probably couldn't afford to pay your professional rate."

"No, I don't imagine that you could," he quipped. The words stung a bit, but his tone sounded relaxed and he smiled again.

Belle lifted up the simple glass dome on her counter and slid the remains of her ruined Lemon Curd cupcakes onto the doily.

"Aren't you going to throw those away?" Rum asked, suddenly interested in what she was doing.

"I do an Ugly Cake Fund," Belle blushed, indicating a large coffee can with a pattern of roses painted on the sides. She'd hate for him to think there was anything unsanitary about her work! The Mayor already had health inspectors on her case twice a month. Thankfully, Belle was a neat and orderly person by nature.

"One of assistants is a little clumsy, so there are lots of Ugly Cakes," she added. "As long as they're not dangerous, I put them here and people can make a donation. Or just eat for free. Whatever money I make goes into the children's book fund."

She nodded toward a fanciful trolley, very near the front of her shop, which had the words FREE TO GOOD HOMES painted amid dragons and butterflies. It was surrounded by a ring of half-size furniture, all of it mismatched and brightly colored. There were several familiar titles displayed, some of them slightly worn, but all appropriate for children learning to read.

Rum wasn't giving her any clues about what he was thinking about the Ugly Cakes, so Belle began boxing the cupcakes he'd made.

"Do you want to walk these over to Granny's with me?" she asked. Screw it – Rum worked hard on these, even when she kept insulting him by mistake – and she was going to serve them. They looked homemade, if a bit irregular. Probably that would not be a detriment to Granny's customers.

"You want me to meet your grandmother?" he blinked.

"What? No! No, nothing like that! Granny's is the name of the local diner. I bring her something fun to sell every day. You really haven't been in town for long, have you? I thought everyone knew Granny's."

"I, uh, just arrived," he confessed. Then, after a beat, he added: "I got a place on the harbor."

"That's a nice part of town," she congratulated him. "Did you buy or rent?"

"Buy," he grinned, suddenly comfortable with the conversation again.

"Congratulations! It's so good to see a new face in town to stay. So many people just rent a place for a few months in the summer and move on."

Rum quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Watch out, your face might get stuck like that." She made a silly face back at him.

He barked out a tiny laugh, and it seemed like all of his aloofness melted away. Rum wasn't a bad looking guy, when he wasn't scowling. Getting near to middle-aged, but he took ten years off his face just by relaxing, and the few streaks of gray along his temples made him look charming. Like her (people never guessed she was really 32), she had a feeling that Rum really didn't look his age at all – and she'd been right!

Belle decided then and there that she was going to get him to laugh – really laugh – before she said goodbye today. "Well if you've really never been to Granny's, I guess that means your Inaugural Lunch is on me!"

"That's really not necessary," he blanched.

"It's okay, Rum, I'm not going to be offended if you have places to be." She should have thought of that. Not everyone flitted in and out of work as needed.

"No, I just meant that I can pay…" He reached for his wallet for the tenth time that day.

"But you don't have to – I want to treat," Belle smiled, giving him his space. He seemed really on edge all of a sudden, and Belle didn't know what she was doing wrong, so she simply settled on being polite.

"Astrid!" Belle called into the back kitchen. "I'm taking an early lunch. Mind the register while I'm gone?"

"Sure thing," the petite nun grinned, stepping out into the front.

Rum looked shocked to see another person around, so Belle introduced him. Rum Gold, meet Sister Astrid – Sister Astrid, Rum Gold. The usual run-down. Gold didn't comment on the fact that Belle employed a nun, which she found odd, and Astrid couldn't shake his hand without covering him in lemon curd, so things got a bit awkward.

"I uh… had a little accident with some of the lemon curd while you were away," Astrid blushed.

Belle took stock of the sticky, golden blob running down the front of Astrid's apron and laughed. "That's okay, we had a little accident too," said Belle, pointing to their newly acquired Ugly Cakes.

They said their goodbyes and headed outside.

Rum followed Belle down the block, remaining a few steps behind her all the way to Granny's. He didn't say anything, but he lunged forward at the last minute, as they approached the building, to swing the door open for her.

"I'll buy lunch," he stated, as though that settled the matter, and slid the door shut behind them.

Belle shrugged. "Suit yourself, then."

If it made him comfortable, he could pay for her cheeseburger and iced tea; certainly accepting his terms would be more polite than starting an argument in front of everybody. They got a few odd looks as she dropped off the chocolate-frosted cupcakes at the counter, but the novelty of seeing her out with a man – and a new face in town, to boot – passed without commentary.

And now they were on a date. Did lunch count as a date? He couldn't tell.

If she knew who he was, she'd probably tell her friends about the time she dated a burned-out rock star, and (though it would have ruined some of the charm) things would have been simpler for him. But if she really didn't know… Gold both loved and loathed the possibility. He didn't have much going for him, at his age, that wasn't directly tied to his fame and money.

It was hugely intoxicating to think that she'd invited him out anyway.

His last date hadn't been like this, though, so maybe it was just wishful thinking on his part. At least she was letting him pay.

"So what's your favorite band?" Belle asked him, taking another sip of iced tea.

"Lately, it feels like HOOK is all I listen to." He hadn't lied. He hadn't. And Belle was clever, so she'd probably get the joke and figure out where she'd seen him before in a moment.

He made it into the background of a lot of tabloid covers these days, so she'd almost certainly seen him (even if seeing wasn't the same as noticing) as she waited in the grocery store checkout line, or idly flipped through channels on her TV. It would be a bit disappointing if she gushed and squealed about meeting Killian once she placed him, but Rumford Goldfellow was wholly prepared to indulge her; she'd been kind when he was just Rum Gold (he was almost sure her ignorance wasn't a ploy), and that counted for a lot to him.

And he wanted her, he realized. Well who wouldn't? She was lovely. But far too young for him. God, what would Neal say?

Belle wrinkled her nose. "Are they the ones with that song about getting drunk and wrecking hotel rooms?"

Okay… not the response he'd been expecting. Gold genuinely had to pause and think about their lyrics for a moment. That wasn't an aspect of the band that he paid special attention to. "I think so?"

"Well you're the one who likes them, so you should know," she grinned. "I think I've hear them on the radio. The music is pretty good, if you ignore the lyrics."

Gold nodded. He'd definitely pay more attention to the dribble Killian was writing this time.

"What about you?" he asked, because it suddenly mattered very much to him. "What do you like?"

"I like a lot of music from the 70s and 80s, actually," Belle confessed. "Bowie, Queen, Kansas… Wizard Lizard, obviously. I know it's corny, but I always listened to my mother's records after we moved here, and she had a few shelves of them mixed in with her library."

Gold nodded and tried to maintain his poker face. Was it possible she'd recognized him from a Wizard Lizard album cover? That would certainly be a novelty. Would she comment on how much he'd aged? Rum tried not to fidget as he thought about all the ways his body had changed.

He missed Wizard Lizard, sometimes. Things back then had been loud, fun, and – above all – young. When he reminisced over a bottle whiskey, it was Jefferson Madden – with his trademark top-hat, making love to the bass at 160 beats per minute – and Victor Whale – in his mad scientist get-up, cutting up the drums with a surgeon-like precision – that materialized.

Wizard Lizard was a relic of the past, though. Nobody went in for gimmick shows and glam rock anymore; it was strictly reserved for karaoke night. Once, the tabloids resurrected an old photo of him with big hair and dilated pupils when they were particularly frustrated by Killian punching a cameraman. Apparently gold body paint and leather was a fashion faux pas that you couldn't bounce back from, even after a couple of decades.

What the hell were Jefferson and Victor doing these days?

"I like to listen to a lot of classic rock," he told her. "But Brit Pop and Punk were good sounds for me. I like House of Heroes and Jack White too. Or anything with an over-the-top guitar solo."

Belle made a poor attempt at an air guitar, and teased him with a very playful Van Halen impression.

It was the single most ridiculous thing he'd seen in weeks. Not at all what the sophisticated actresses his manager picked out for him did on dates. So this definitely was not a date. That was fine, he didn't mind; shockingly, he was having a good time anyway.

Gold laughed – really laughed – and then they were both drawing stares as they tried to stifle themselves before their jaws started to ache.

"So, Rum…" Belle started, once they calmed down again.

Rum winced. He hated this part: the confession and request for… would it be money or drugs? No, probably not. An autograph, maybe? Tickets to the next show once they went on tour again? That wouldn't be too bad, actually. It might be nice to see Belle backstage, waiting for him.

"If you don't want to talk about it because we just met, I totally understand," Belle rushed. "But you looked really upset earlier, so… I just wanted to say that I hope everything's okay."

What?

"I'm sure it's none of my business," she carried on. "But we've just had a really nice lunch, and you were such a good sport about icing those cupcakes for me, so I had to ask. I know you're new in town… so don't be a stranger if you ever want to talk to somebody."

"It was my son," he confessed. To his dying day, he'd never know where that idiotic bravery came from. Neal would kill him if this story ever got out. "He's not my biggest fan, really, and—"

Damn. How was he supposed to work in a word like grandson?

"It's okay," Belle smiled, taking his hand across the table after he didn't say more. "Any time you want to talk, you know where to find me."

"Aye, and I suppose it's better than throwing my mobile," Rum teased. "Damn thing's nearly indestructible, it seems."

"Oh yes," Belle replied primly. "We couldn't let the Sheriff cite you for denting the sidewalk."

Rum Gold laughed for the second time that day.


	2. Part II

Belle was exhausted, and she'd already sent poor Astrid back to the convent for the day. Having a nun as an employee was… interesting. She drew wages, because Belle insisted on paying her fairly, but she promptly donated them back to the Church every two weeks.

Astrid worked the early-morning shift with Belle, right up until she had to fulfill her duties at the convent. Sometimes she came back later, to help decorate – but Astrid's track record with icing looked kind of like a bad I Love Lucy gag. She even manned the register one or two days a week, but ended up giving away more product than she sold. Belle hadn't been exaggerating when she said they ended up with a lot of Ugly Cakes.

Her only other employee, another part-timer who gave Belle a few days off each week, wasn't due in again until Sunday. It was a shame, because Ariel – who spent most of her time at work going through bridal magazines – would definitely have been able to tell her if there was too much almond in these tricolor cookies. Was her marzipan too sweet?

Astrid treated sugar strictly on an add-a-bit-more basis, so her palate wouldn't have been very helpful anyway. Maybe she was just going crazy. They tasted okay.

Still, she really could have used a little help for an extra half hour today. Why did she always think it was a good idea to make complicated cookies on short notice? It was a challenge, that was why. Though they were vibrant and delicious, they took a very long time to complete.

She was cutting it close today, but at least she was done cutting the last tray into finger-sized bars. Belle prepared to go change out of her sensible sneakers, into a pair of pumps, when she heard a gentle knock at the door.

Usually, nobody came around before five, so she popped her head out of the kitchen to see what was happening.

"Rum!" Belle gushed, letting him in. He seemed so much taller than she remembered; without her heels on, she barely came up to his shoulder level.

"I didn't peg you for a morning person," she grinned.

"Night owl," he admitted. He still had his guitar case with him.

"Is everything okay? I didn't expect to see you back so soon – but I'm glad for the company."

"I saw the light and decided to come over after… work. You're here early."

"Yeah, I have to get the actual baking done before everyone wakes up. It makes for a lot of early mornings," she said, laughing at her own expense. "Thankfully we can get away with freezing some of the pastries, or keeping them for a day or two in the fridge. Still, I try to start every day with something fresh. The aroma really brings the early birds in."

"Did you have breakfast?" Rum asked. The hand not holding his instrument flitted nervously between them.

Her heart went out to Rum Gold – he was lonely, awkward, and sweet when he wasn't scowling. Apart from their lunch yesterday, she couldn't remember the last time she'd been out socially – a 4 AM start time would do that to you – and she was shocked at exactly how much she wanted to accept his offer.

"I'm sorry," Belle frowned. "I'm the only one in the shop right now, so I can't leave. But if you're up for eating-in, I can grab us some muffins."

"Only if you let me pay for them," he nodded with a bashful grin on his face.

Belle rolled her eyes.

"If you must. Were you playing over at The Rabbit Hole tonight?" she asked, pulling two medium-sized pumpkin muffins from her display case.

"What? Of course not." He reverted back to being aloof and skittish in the space of a heartbeat.

"So you just carry that guitar around for looks, then?" Belle teased.

He clutched it closer out of habit, as though she'd threatened to take it from him.

Belle finally took mercy on him. He was clearly a little on edge, but anybody would be if they stayed up all night, and she decided not to press the matter. "Can I get you a cup of coffee with your muffin, or are you on your way home to sleep all day?"

"Not all day, no," he yawned.

Belle shot a look at him.

"Alright, probably until noon." He gave her a lop-sided grin, revealing a mouth of slightly uneven teeth with a few pieces of golden dental work. It might have been a rictus on someone else, but Rum just looked happy. It was a nice change.

"I'd take a triple espresso, though. That would probably make me better company."

She didn't mean to laugh at him, but it happened anyway.

"What's funny?" He looked a little upset.

"Sorry," she replied. "I can make you a decaf drip coffee or herbal tea. You should definitely rest, so no caffeine will be forthcoming."

"And that's funny, is it?" Rum growled, but he'd gone from annoyed to playful. "You're holding out on me."

"It's a little bit funny," Belle chuckled. She caught a flash of white in the street. "Oh, just a sec…"

She brushed past Rum, scooped up the white box with pale blue ribbon from her counter, and rushed out into the street.

"Marco! Marco! You'll have to tell me if I finally got them right this time," she smiled, catching up to the old carpenter on his way to his workshop. Her tricolor cookies came from his late wife's recipe, but the woman had tinkered with it for 50 years without writing much down, and Belle's attempts never quite passed muster.

He took one bite and pulled her into a big hug. Then he told her to try a little less almond. Oh well, back to the drawing board.

HOOK's recording session had started at 10 PM the night before, and Gold spent the whole time distracted – in two minds about his petite brunette.

The first fight broke out a little after midnight. They thought his distortion was over-the-top. He thought their lyrics were rubbish. Their producer loved something different in every take and swore he could fix it in post-production, as long as they kept making noise in the general vicinity of a mic. Gold hadn't expected anything less: he knew this was going to be an uphill battle all the way.

Six hours felt more like sixty, and all that time to think (stew, more like) hadn't really solved anything.

He'd definitely be more appealing to her if he told her he was famous. That was a fact. Rum wasn't sure how to bring it up, but he'd probably get another opportunity if tried. Oh, by the way, I'm a rock star (for a certain value of star power) was too abrupt.

Maybe he could accidentally drop a copy of Rolling Stone with his picture on the cover? But then why would he be carrying an out-of-date magazine around? Belle would see through that, she was very smart.

He could just come out with it. Belle was very nice, that was also a fact; there might be a bit of difficulty over letting her believe he was nothing, but it would only have been for a day. An introductory misconception, really. Less than 24 hours total, if he caught her at work that morning. She'd understand – it was amazing what people would forgive when you were famous.

Then again, he'd rather chew off his own arm than let Killian within striking distance of her, and she would definitely want to meet the HOOK front-man (everyone always did), so there was another unwelcome fact for him.

He didn't know if he could stomach Killian flirting with her, and he definitely would. Belle was exactly Jones' type (she was every man's type, if he was being honest with himself) and Gold wanted nothing more than to keep her a secret. What choice did he have? Jones would win. There was really no competition between them – Jones was younger, more popular, and a much more competent charmer with infinitely less baggage to carry around.

Where did that leave him? He could keep his distance, never correct her assumptions, and worry incessantly about her bumping into Jones on the weekends. They were leaving in a month (another fact, though not one that he particularly relished just now); he could do the right thing for a miserable 30 days, couldn't he? It might not have been what he wanted, but it would probably be the best for Belle, and he could move on guilt-free with a beautiful face to dream of. The bugger was, he didn't want to do the noble thing. At all. For a fact. Not even a little bit.

Rum hadn't met someone who was genuinely nice to him for a very long time. Nice wasn't a surviving characteristic in the music industry. Hell, even his own son didn't want to talk to him – how was he supposed to walk away from a beautiful woman who genuinely seemed to like him for himself?

Rum Gold was not a popular bloke – fact… what number was he up to now? Felt like more than 10, but was probably less. Rumford Goldfellow, though - now he was exciting! And demanding. And disappointing. And generally a bastard, if you asked his family about it.

Belle's niceness was making it really, really difficult for him to come up with reasons not to tell her who he was, because he was almost certain she wouldn't treat him very differently; he was just too cowardly to ruin a good thing when he saw it. But he knew, deep in his gut, the one thing he absolutely could not do was get closer to her without coming clean.

It had all been so obvious when he'd knocked on her door this morning, but now all he could see were dozens of complications threatening to pull his plans apart at the seams. She'd run off on him before he could bring it up, for a start, and now it was going to be really, really easy to grant himself another reprieve.

Gold glared out the plate glass window of Belle's shop, wishing that the white-haired old man in the street would stop hugging her. He'd impulsively ordered his driver drop him around the corner when he saw the bakery light on. After a long night in the studio, the temptation of lemon cupcakes and blue eyes was just too good to walk away from.

And he was going to tell her. Really, he was. He'd been nervous about it, which was ridiculous, because she was about to hit the proverbial jackpot. That was before she chased an old man down the block, pushed a box of sweets into his hands, and let him hug her.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window – he was visibly gray, tired, and needed a shave. Maybe Belle just treated all old men kindly. And children. And pets. You didn't have to be special for Belle to like you, she was nice to everybody. Neal brought a poem home from school about a Duchess who was like that, once, but Rum hadn't really been able to help him with his homework by that point, and he doubted the information would have helped in this case.

The old man hugged her again.

Maybe he could dye his hair? Every strand of silver stood out like a dagger in his head, and Rum scowled at his reflection. When he saw the deep lines between his brows, he tried to smooth his expression. The shadow of a scraggly beard coming in wasn't doing him any favors.

He definitely needed to tell her… eventually. One more day of anonymous bliss couldn't really hurt, and he'd have a chance to wash and shave.

She smiled up at him as she trotted back inside, flipping her sign to Open. She had to ease up onto her toes to reach it. Belle in heels was a temptation, but Gold was not a large man, and he was quickly becoming addicted to the idea of wrapping himself around that soft, petite frame.

"Sorry about that. Marco's son lives out of town, and it's his wife's recipe," she said by way of an explanation. "She died a few years ago."

"That's… sad." It didn't feel like enough, somehow, but he felt justifiably happy about the discovery. Being nice to widowers in their 80s didn't mean she lumped him into the same category.

"Yeah, it's rough. Neither of us really has a family in Storybrooke anymore, so I try to look out for him. He gave me these chairs last year."

She showed him a set of tiny, carved chairs accompanying a small table in the children's corner. They featured scenes from The Wind in the Willows, and had clearly been made by a master craftsman.

"Do you think he could build a guitar?" Gold asked, only half joking. Scrollwork like that would sell for big money.

Gold enjoyed chai tea and a pumpkin muffin piled high with streusel while her usual customers trickled in, taking to-go baggies and simple coffee with sugar or cream. A few grabbed Ugly Cakes and didn't buy anything.

The next day, he saw the same few freeloaders back again. Some even brought their own books to read, despite the fact that Belle had a good trade going in second-hand paperbacks.

He'd been shocked that morning when (after he made a quip about her business model hemorrhaging funds) soft, sweet Belle gave him a firm lecture on foot traffic, mark-up, overhead, and being part of the community. He couldn't apologize fast enough, but she just laughed it off and called herself one tough cookie. Rum had to admit that he now had a slight soft spot for bad puns.

But by day four, he still hadn't confessed and their breakfast muffins were becoming a routine. He was quickly passing the open window where his deception would pass for a misunderstanding.

In that time, though, he'd been amazed by the sheer strength and determination behind Belle's petite frame. She had a smile for everyone, a seemingly endless spirit of charity, and she managed her employees firmly but fairly (especially Sister Astrid, who seemed to Gold like a walking catastrophe).

Today, it was just the two of them. Gold tried to stifle a yawn while she built a series of delicate napoleons for Granny's.

"Alright, mister, I think it's past your bed time," Belle teased.

"Tired of me already?" he groaned.

"It's almost 7:30," Belle told him, suddenly serious. "How long have you been awake? I'm worried that you haven't been sleeping enough."

"I'll be fine," Gold yawned. He pulled out his phone and sent Dove a text. "I've got somebody coming for me."

"You must have a pretty indulgent roommate," Belle joked.

Yes, he's my body guard and driver. The label hired him to keep an eye on me, so I wouldn't do anything stupid, like drink too much after a gig and break my leg in three places. Also, I can probably get you into any club, party, or restaurant in the world if you agree to go out with me.

That's what he should have said. Well, maybe with a little more subtlety.

He settled for: "I don't have a roommate."

"A band mate, then?"

He shook his head, and a lock of graying hair fell into his face. Rum brushed it back ferociously. He didn't need any more reminders of his old age. His hair fell into his eyes again, and Belle reached up to fix it for him. Her nails on his scalp made his heart race.

"New to town, no roommate, no wife… but somebody's going to come and pick you up early in the morning. Rum Gold, you are a mystery."

"It's just someone from the studio," Gold said without thinking. He leaned into her touch.

"Are you working with Jefferson, then?" Belle asked. Damn – this wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

"Jefferson?" he gulped.

"Jefferson Madden – he used to be in Wizard Lizard, the one in the top hat. He owns a little studio in town. Mostly he just goofs around in the park on weekends, but sometimes he comes in here to play. I didn't put two and two together before, but if you're a professional musician you've probably met him."

"And you… uh, you like Jefferson?" Gold managed.

"I adore his daughter. He's a great dad" Belle beamed, turning her attention to fixing his shirt collar. "Jefferson can be a bit weird, but he's a real sweetheart when you get to know him. And he does a mean rendition of Itsy Bitsy Spider on his bass."

"That's… great. Yeah. Didn't realize you knew him," Gold choked out.

"You know, you… no, never mind," Belle shook her head.

That was it. That was his chance to come clean. If she hadn't worked it out by now, she wasn't going to, and he'd been waiting for this opportunity to arrive. It was a shame to watch it pass him by.

Did she know?

After Wizard Lizard and his marriage broke up (both his fault), and after a less than stellar solo career (not his fault – but bugger if he could find someone else to blame), Rum Gold was reconciled with his status as a footnote of rock and roll. And that would have been alright, but Neal was barely even on speaking terms with him back then, and he didn't have any other marketable skills, so he'd kept working at a come-back. Then someone had offered him good money to use one of his songs on a video game with a weird controller, and suddenly Rumford Goldfellow was cool.

After more than a decade of being snubbed by critics, he was suddenly on the cover of Rolling Stone again, hailed as the man whose music had accidentally shaped a generation, whose albums predicted the rise of a post-grunge, post-punk alternative. The Real Guitar Hero – he hoped the editors at USA Today choked on that one.

When HOOK offered him a touring contract that came with royalties and creative veto power, he'd signed it in a heartbeat. The world was his for the taking again, and all he needed was a guitar and an amp. And Neal, of course, but he was still working on that.

And to think, he'd almost missed out on coming to Storybrooke. If Killian and Keith had their way, HOOK would have been recording in New York or LA. It took an act of intervention from the label and a team of over-paid lawyers, but finding Wonderland Records is what brought him to Belle in the first place. And Jefferson owned it. And Jefferson was a weird sweetheart. And Jefferson played Itsy Bitsy Spider for her.

Jefferson Madden, who hadn't even made a record in thirty years – the bass player of a gimmick band with big hair– was someone Belle admired. It was shocking how quickly Gold's good will and nostalgia evaporated when he thought about it like that. Suddenly, being Rumford Goldfellow wasn't such a fool-proof way to attract her.

Belle went quiet. She patted his sleeve, drawing him from his reverie. "You should really get some rest, Rum."

"Er… right." He backed out the door.

"Sleep tight." Belle tugged him back and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

Gold melted. "Good night."

For over a week, Rum dragged himself – exhausted – into her bakery. They kept each other company. When things got busy, he seemed content to jot down guitar tabs on her napkins and wait; when he was nervous, his fingers contorted into strange shapes she'd learned to recognize as chords; they talked about anything and everything, including the books she loved. Sometimes he'd even fall asleep at her counter.

He didn't care for anything with anise seed, but he'd gobble down as many white chocolate mocha cookies as she put on his plate. Her peppermint blondies disappeared just as quickly. Raisin oatmeal went utterly to waste.

She'd become very good friends with him, and that was making this difficult.

"Should I just ask him out?" Belle sighed, tasting her filling while Ariel piped out little dollops of pastry.

"I'm not saying no," Ariel hedged. "But if he was really interested, don't you think he would have said something by now? You're beautiful, Belle. He'd have to be blind not to want to take you out."

"I don't think he's gay…" She hadn't shared her other suspicion with the red-head.

"He spends all his time in a bakery with you, and he hasn't asked you out yet? Sounds like he's not interested."

"He did ask me out once, but I didn't have anyone to cover the register. What if all these breakfasts have been dates and I'm the one who's been slow to catch on?"

Ariel hadn't really spent much time with Rum, but she was engaged, so Belle accepted that she knew the most about men. Definitely more than Sister Astrid.

"The worst thing that can happen if you ask is he'll say no," Ariel chided. "Some men like to do the asking, but Rum seems shy."

They each stuck a small spoon into Belle's orange crème and licked a little off the end.

"Needs more Cointreau," concluded Ariel.

"I was thinking of using zest instead."

"No way, Belle! Virgin baked goods are no fun, as Ruby says."

They laughed at that. Ruby was a good friend, but she had a wild streak a mile long. When Belle made brandied cherries and rum cakes around the holidays, Ruby was always first in line to buy some.

"Alright," Belle rallied, pouring in another two capfuls of the liqueur into her mix. "I'll ask him out tomorrow."

That was easier said than done. He had to know she was flirting, didn't he? Rum just wasn't acting any differently.

"So, when are you going to open up that case and show me what some of these scribbles sound like?" she asked when her last regular customer finally left with his spy romance novel.

"I'm, uh… not really supposed to," he blushed.

Rum looked uncomfortable, so Belle backed off a little. She topped up his cup of tea. They brewed Moroccan mint tea by the pot in the mornings now, and shared a few cups apiece. It was a good compromise – the freshness of the mint was nice after working long hours, and she still wouldn't serve him caffeine.

"It's not that I don't want to," he insisted, running his hands through his hair. "It's just that… we're still recording. It's a legal thing."

"That makes sense. I promise not to pester you about it anymore."

To her absolute surprise, he put the battered old case on the table and opened it. The guitar inside was every bit as battered as she'd expected it to be; it looked well-played. He flipped it over.

"Neal made this one when he was five," Rum told her, running his hands over a faded handprint smeared through blue paint, near the neck. And I had him do this one when he was ten." He pointed out a matching handprint, nearly doubled in size, this time in green.

"Where's age 15?" Belle asked, spotting the pattern.

"He, uh, wasn't really into it by that age," Rum whispered. "He doesn't really like me."

"How old is he?"

Rum flinched. "Honestly? Almost 30. I suppose that makes me old enough to be your father."

"Only if you started very young," Belle chastised. "I'm almost 33."

"You're twenty five if you're a day!"

"No, really," Belle grinned. "Everyone always says I look young, because I'm so small. The heels help, sort of. And what are you, late 40s?"

"53," Rum confessed, though he sounded like she'd forced it out of him with hot pliers. "Still old enough to be your father," he sighed.

"Good for us that we're not actually related, then," Belle grinned. She was flirting her butt off, and hoped he recognized the signs.

Rum looked like he needed a moment to come up with a response, so Belle pulled out a tray of cupcakes and set to work. She nearly dropped her icing bag when she heard him play a few chords for her.

"I could sing you something else," he offered. "Something I didn't write?"

She nodded, and a familiar melody began to play.

She's got eyes of the bluest skies, as if they thought of rain;

I'd hate to look into those eyes and see an ounce of pain.

Her hair reminds me of a warm, safe place where as a child I'd hide,

And pray for the thunder and the rain to quietly pass me by.

Oh-oh, sweet Belle of mine….

His eyes were serene, heavily lidded, and the color of caramel. Oh Sugar. Oh sugar.

Belle didn't know when she decided to do it; all she knew was that she was kissing him, and it was the best decision she'd ever made.

Rum had just enough control to set his guitar aside before pulling Belle to his side and running his tongue over her lips. She opened her mouth to let him deepen the kiss, and he shuddered when Belle's fingers ran through his hair.

Finally, they had to break apart to breathe.

"Remind me to send Slash a thank you card," he quipped. It was a stupid thing to say, but Belle laughed and rested her head against his chest. Hell, he'd owe Slash a '59 Les Paul at this rate.

"Listen, Rum," Belle sounded nervous. No, no, no, dammit – he'd been doing so well, and now it was about to end. "There's something I've wanted to ask you…"

He still had a chance!

"I know, Belle, and you're right. I should have told you, but it… it was nice to just be liked for myself. But yes, to answer your question: I am." He blurted it all out before cowardice overcame him.

"Are you… are you talking about the Wizard Lizard thing?" She frowned.

"You knew the whole time?" Gold breathed.

"Well, I suspected that day when we talked about Jefferson… but honestly, Rum, I don't mind."

She didn't mind? What the hell was that supposed to mean? His confusion must have translated to his face, because Belle kept talking.

"At first I thought maybe you were embarrassed always to be recognized as the guy in the gold body paint and leather, so I thought I would just Google you to be sure—"

Gold gulped.

"But I realized that it didn't matter. It didn't define the sweet man I knew, and I figured you'd tell me when you were ready."

"I… yeah." He was dumbfounded. He'd gotten away with it! She knew (in a skew sort of way, and not the whole truth) and it hadn't changed how she treated him. Well, okay, maybe it contributed a little to having her in his arms right now, but she wasn't furious and betrayed – and that was a major victory.

"I didn't, just so you know," Belle told you. "Google you, I mean. Way too invasive, and you deserve your privacy."

"Thank you," he signed, burying his nose in her hair. It smelled like cinnamon and vanilla, too real to be a dream.

"But that's not what I wanted to ask you," Belle grinned, running her hands along the ridge of his spine.

It wasn't? Oh shit. If she knew about Killian and this was all just an act… He'd be her happy fool, he already knew. Damn.

"I wanted to ask if you'd have dinner with me tonight," Belle confessed. "But I wasn't sure if you were interested in dating."

"Oh, sweetheart, yes. Yes. I'll make a reservation, I—"

"Not so fast, mister," his darling Belle giggled. "I had to ask you out, so that means I get to organize the date, and this time I'm paying."

He didn't have the strength to refuse.


	3. Part III

Waking up next to Belle was bliss. In the two weeks since she'd kissed him, Rum Gold had been living the dream and had spent several nights in her apartment. She made his whole body hum.

With just a bit of fiddling with his schedule, he'd contrived spend his nights wrapped up in warm, soft legs, pressed against ruby red lips. The other members of HOOK were quite annoyed with him, but Rum didn't care. He had Belle.

It was the happiest he'd been since Neal was a kid.

Belle stirred next to him, and Gold ran his lips over her neck and shoulder, drawing her closer to him.

"Morning, sweetheart," he murmured.

She made a content sound and cuddled into him. "S'early."

"I know. You wanted to get up for the early shift at the bakery today." He nibbled at her earlobe.

"Mm… I'll make you a cinnamon roll if you come take a shower with me," she moaned.

Cinnamon rolls were his favorite now. They hadn't used to be – carefully formed pinwheel swirls with a thin drizzle of icing were not the sort of fare he'd eaten as a child – but Belle smelled of cinnamon and she tasted like vanilla, and Rum Gold couldn't get enough of her.

Of course, he'd gladly have taken a shower with her just for the sheer pleasure of touching her under the water.

"You drive a hard bargain, Miss French," he growled. A certain part of his anatomy (other than his stomach) was definitely ready for the next course.

"Two cinnamon rolls?" she countered.

Leave it to kind, generous Belle to offer everything and more when she already had him wrapped around her little finger.

"Deal," Rum whispered.

The pair of them wandered down to her shop, well washed and well loved. Belle unlocked the door for Astrid, who was due to turn up shortly. Then she tugged him down for a kiss. "You start the coffee, I'll start the rolls?"

"Sounds great." It did, too. He loved the smell of coffee and spices; Belle liked the smell of old paper. Between the two of them, he figured her shop was like heaven.

Belle absented herself to the back, where all the hard work happened, and Gold powered on her ancient coffee machine. It could brew the stuff by the gallon, and had probably been purchased second-hand from Granny's, but Belle filled it with freshly-ground beans and whole spices that tasted better than anything Starbucks made.

Then again, maybe he was biased. Since he'd insisted on a more manageable recording schedule (during actual daylight hours), Belle's coffee had featured heavily in his diet.

He heard the bell over the door tinkling behind him.

"Morning, Sister," said Rum without turning around. He never knew how to act around the little nun. Premarital sex made church-people uncomfortable, and she'd definitely seen Rum emerge from Belle's upstairs apartment on more than one occasion. Rum didn't know who'd been more awkward about it: him or Astrid.

"Well isn't this charming, Crocodile."

Gold spun on his heel and froze. He hated that name – it only served to remind him of Wizard Lizard and everything he'd left behind. Killian Jones, flanked by Keith Naughty (shite stage name) and William Smee (shite real name) sauntered into Belle's café. A funk of cigarette smoke and whiskey hovered around them.

Keith, the rhythm guitarist, dropped beats and mangled strum patterns, but none of that mattered to the groupies; he was almost as popular as Killian. Smee, the bassist, at least played with some proficiency. It seemed that the HOOK drummer had been smart enough to stay home this evening.

"Get out," glowered Gold. "Now."

"Nah, mate. I think we'll stay a while." Killian sauntered over to the coffee bar and picked up the Ugly Cake Fund donation bin.

Gold bristled.

"This is sweet," Jones smirked. "I'm surprised, Crocodile. I never would have pegged you for the domestic type. Still, I suppose old age will do that to a bloke."

He dropped the tin unceremoniously on the ground, and the clang it made echoed through the book shelves.

"Is everything okay out there?" Belle called from the kitchen.

"Fine, sweetheart!" Rum called back.

"Just some gentlemen getting off a late night at the pub," he growled under his breath, glaring pointedly at the intruders. "What do you want?"

"Well the way we see it, mate, you've been having it all your own way for too long. First you bullied us into this town, and then you started dragging your feet about the direction our music was taking, and all of a sudden we're all working a 9 to 5 schedule while you're practically wearing a neon sign around your neck, letting the whole world know you're getting laid. Not really fair, is it?"

"So we thought we'd come and meet your little lady," Smee leered. "Come on out here, Miss!" On his own, William wasn't much trouble, but backing up Killian he was a Grade-A flunkie. If his antics endangered Belle, nothing on this earth would spare him from Rum's fury.

"Yeah," Keith slurred. "Let's see the wench."

"Rum, do you know these people?" Belle edged her way out of the kitchen, with a rolling pin clutched in her hands.

"It'll be fine, sweetheart. They were just leaving."

"Oh sweetheart," mimicked Smee.

"Don't you want a real rock star, instead of this washed-up has-been?" slurred Keith, grabbing suggestively at his genitals. "If you were mine, I'd let you have me to yourself for a whole hour before a gig."

He knocked into the children's book kart and sent a small chair spinning. Keith struggled to right himself, and then looked Belle up and down with a lascivious gaze.

"Well," Naughty sneered, "Maybe just twenty minutes. I've always preferred my girls with a little less meat on them."

"I want you to leave," Belle demanded. "If you're not out of here in thirty seconds, you'll have to deal with the police."

"Oh, love," smirked Killian, cupping her cheek. "You really should have called them about two minutes ago, don't you think?"

Rum couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

"I did," Belle replied sweetly, slapping his hand away from her.

The room erupted. Gold brawled through Keith and Smee, both of whom backed down quickly, and then he got hold of something heavy and lashed into Jones, who'd cornered Belle against her display case. All he saw was red. Red with flashes of blue mixed in.

"Rum, no. No, I said." Belle was dragging him away from Jones, whose face was bloodied where Gold had hit him with the Ugly Cake tin.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and Rum managed to break away without kicking the HOOK front-man again.

In the distance, they heard sirens. Somewhere on the sidewalk, Rum registered a camera flash.

"Enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame, love," Killian glowered at Belle. "This little publicity stunt ought to get you into a few magazines, but it won't last."

Smee helped him to stand, and he looked disheveled and smug through his injuries. Jones shrugged off Smee's assistance and sauntered up to Gold. "You're lucky the label already agreed to move this production back to LA. Otherwise I'd have to retaliate. See you back in California, mate."

Then Jones sucker punched him.

By the time the police broke up the fight a few minutes later, Gold had to silence his phone to stop his manager from bothering him. The police took statements, but didn't arrest anyone.

The consummate charmer, Killian magnanimously announced that he wouldn't press charges against a legend like Rumford Goldfellow – even though the old chap had thrown the first punch. They didn't make rock and rollers like they used to, and you had to respect the kind of wild lawlessness that defined the genre. It was a code – honor among scoundrels, and all that. (And, of course, a gent like Rumford Goldfellow wouldn't want to bring charges against a fellow musician; high spirits, artistic expression, it was all part of the process for them.)

The police were happy to accept his excuses, so long as Killian covered the damages to Belle's shop – unless she wanted to bring charges against Gold as well for damage to property? She hadn't, though Rum wouldn't have blamed her in the least. It was entirely his fault.

The Storybrooke sheriff was a quiet, serious man, ill-at-ease with the flurry of cameras that kept turning up on the scene. He'd been quite keen to send everyone home, especially since Belle hadn't actually been harmed.

Rum prickled when the sheriff wrote that down. Property owner: Belle French, 32, unharmed. No, he supposed she hadn't been harmed – Jones knew better. She'd only threatened. Insulted. Bullied and made to feel small by men who didn't deserve to lick the dirt from her shoes. Rum seethed, but he had to play along. Neal would never forgive him if he got arrested again.

Bit by miserable bit, the whole truth came out. Belle knew everything now: all about HOOK and Rumford Goldfellow's ongoing career. She hadn't stopped him from holding her hand, though, so maybe she'd be alright once things calmed down.

Finally, the police forced the mob of onlookers away, and Rum ushered Belle back inside, shutting out the world. The bakery would be closed for a few days, at least, and she completely ignored him as she contacted the relevant contractors, customers, and employees. So far, she seemed okay.

When she finished taking care of her business, Belle walked silently up stairs, to her second-story apartment. Gold followed. She was trembling. He reached out to hold her, but she brushed him away.

"Is it true, Rum?" Belle whispered. "Was what Jones said true?"

Gold tried to remember what Killian told her. Something about a publicity stunt?

He shook his head. "There might be a few paparazzi around the place for a day or two, but your name shouldn't factor into it unless you grant an interview. The news will be mostly about Jones and me, and I have people to handle most of the damage control. I didn't orchestrate this, if that's what you think. I had no idea they'd… You mean the world to me, Belle."

"That's not what I asked, Rum." Her eyes were sad.

"Then please just give me a clue," Gold sighed. "Is it because I'm involved with HOOK? I should have told you about it, I know. But I was afraid. I thought you'd take one look at a younger model …"

"That's not fair," Belle snapped. "Don't you dare make this about something so petty as a handsome face and a couple of songs. I trusted you, Rum. I didn't pry into your work because I trusted you to tell me about anything important, and – for the record – it wouldn't have mattered. I liked you, not them. But you didn't trust me at all, did you?"

"I just didn't want to lose you!" he begged.

"Then answer the question!" she shouted back. "Is it true or not?"

"Is what true!?" he roared.

"Are you really leaving Storybrooke?"

Rum blanched. He hadn't wanted to think about that. Of all the lies and deceptions he'd allowed to fester between them, he'd just assumed that his life as Rumford Goldfellow would be a welcome surprise for her. "Belle, it's… it's complicated. I have a contract."

"You told me you bought a home here! I've seen it – I've… I've stayed over," she blushed.

"I do own that house," he promised. "I bought it for my portfolio, because it made more sense than renting. We can stay there any time you want."

"But you let me believe… I thought… You never said this was temporary! I've always been a short-term convenience for you, haven't I?"

"It wasn't like that… I thought we had a few weeks before I had to worry about going, and you would have come with me," he smiled. "You still can. We can have had everything."

"But you never said! You never asked if I wanted to leave!" She glared at him through red-rimmed eyes. "What was your plan, Rum, to pack a suitcase for me and shout surprise? Or were you just going to leave one night without saying goodbye?"

"No!" he cried. "I swear I wasn't going to abandon you. I swear it. Please – I'll give you the whole world, Belle, just please – please say that you'll forgive me."

"My whole life is here. My business, my friends. I… I loved you. I thought we'd… we'd…"

"What, move in and get married?" he quipped. "You're not the only one with a job, Belle. I have obligations too."

"Don't you dare mock me," Belle snarled. "You never gave any indication that you weren't serious about this."

"Because I am serious!" Gold snarled back. "You can have the life you always wanted: see the world, read all day, give exorbitant sums of money to charity! It's practically a Cinderella story. You've hit the jackpot, you should be happy!"

She slapped him.

"Please leave."

"Belle—"

"Leave!" She backed him through the door.

"But if the label really does call me back to LA tomorrow—"

It didn't matter. She shut the door in his face, and extinguished his final glimmer of hope. Belle was done with him. He'd ruined it all, and he needed a drink.

Ariel came over a few hours later, with a bottle of wine and a big box of chocolates. It wasn't even noon yet, but they started in on both with gusto.

"Wow. It's like… one of the top ten bands in the world right now," said Ariel, scrolling through her phone. "I can't believe he didn't tell you about it!"

"You and me both," Belle grimaced. "I could understand if it was just that, though. I mean, it was stupid and juvenile, but I can understand wanting to be liked for yourself. I just thought… I thought he was staying."

"Oh, girl, you've got it bad," her friend sympathized.

"I can't help it," Belle sniffled. "I loved him, Ariel. I loved him, and he never told me he was leaving."

"The bastard!"

"I know," Belle groaned. "And he never came right out and said he wanted to be my boyfriend, but I just assumed… I mean, what am I supposed to make of this? He never made a commitment, and he's leaving. I'm not even sure I have a right to be mad at him."

"Of course you do!" championed Ariel. She dug around in the pile of chocolate wrappers and produced another truffle, handing it to Belle.

"He says he just assumed I'd go with him," Belle groaned, shoving the whole truffle into her mouth all in one go. "But how am I supposed to believe that? He knows I can't leave the bakery on short notice, and I certainly can't just close up shop and follow him like some groupie. No. I… I'd be a fool to do that, and I already feel like an idiot."

"You never have to see him again if you don't want to. But if you do…"

"But if I do," Belle gulped, digging for another chocolate, "Then I'd have to make a really big, possibly catastrophic decision, on short notice, for a man who lied to me."

They both drained their wine glasses and filled them back up again.

"So what do you want to do?" Ariel asked her.

Belle thought about it. She really didn't know. She loved Rum, but the idea of Rumford Goldfellow scared her, and he'd told so many lies… Well, no. What he'd done was let her run rough-shod over him with her assumptions, never bothering to correct her, and then acted like her life – a good life, a life she'd worked hard for – was some sort of burden she'd be only too happy to escape.

People said a lot of stupid, thoughtless things in the heat of the moment, but that was more arrogant and stupid than most.

"I think I want to make Marco's tricolor cookies," Belle decided. "And I think I want to keep making them until I feel better or we finally get that stupid recipe right."

Rum Gold was on his third glass of whiskey (in the green room at Wonderland Records, one of the few places Dove wouldn't come looking) when he remembered to turn his phone back on. His voice mail was already full. He had a dozen missed calls from his manager, his agent was standing by with a pack of lawyers in case he needed to mount a defense, and his publicist had sent him close to fifty texts congratulating him on all the good press. Jimmy Fallon wanted to interview him. So did Letterman.

Of the seemingly endless list of numbers on his screen, Neal and Belle were the only people who hadn't tried once to reach him. He dialed Neal's number anyway.

"Really, Papa? Is this your idea of stability?" asked his son, without preamble.

"Abrupt as ever, I see," Gold growled. "I take it we've made the news, then?"

"Gee, you think? I'm sorry, but I can't bring Henry into this fiasco. I can't have him caught in the middle of whatever Yoko grudge-match you and Jones are having."

Gold snapped. It was all too much today. "We both know you had zero interest in actually bringing my grandson up here anyway, so don't pretend that this somehow changes anything. What happened today was a mess, fueled by stupid, selfish men who hurt a kind, gentle lady very badly. If you ever refer to Belle by that vulgar term again, I'll.. I'll…"

"Papa…." Neal gasped. "Papa, I'm sorry. I didn't… Who is she?"

Gold groaned. "She's everything. She… she didn't know about the band, she just thought I was a lonely old sod who could use a cupcake. You'd like her. I thought… I thought I'd introduce you to her, if you ever managed to find time for me."

"She got mad when she found out about HOOK?"

"Yes. Sort of. Not really. She's angry because I assumed she'd be excited to come on tour with me."

"Do you know why I don't make time for you, Papa?" Neal sighed. "It's because you always act like I needed your fame. Like I asked you to be a star, and anything less was unacceptable. You act like I've failed in life because people don't chase me across the street for a photo, and then you have the nerve to complain about your lack of privacy. It's infuriating! You want me to be grateful for everything you sacrificed for me? You never sacrificed anything. You just dragged me along with you, from gig to gig, and then wondered why I was sad all the time.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is on a kid to change schools ten times in a year? How lonely? Emma grew up in foster care, and even she managed to finish a full semester in one city. I never even had that! We're trying to give Henry his best chance, not make him feel like he has to win a popularity contest every day. He has friends here, and a happy life, and every time you show up it all goes crazy."

"I… didn't know you felt that way," Rum replied. "After your mum left us, I just did what I thought was best. I didn't want to let you down, like my father did."

"Well, look," Neal began, "I didn't tell you all that to make you feel sorry for me. I told you that, because it sounds like you're treating your girlfriend like a groupie. I don't think you realize that some people don't want to live life like a celebrity. If you would apologize to her, it would probably go a long way. You never apologize. You're always sorry-looking, but you never actually say anything. And if you still want to introduce me to your friend, I'll bring Henry up next weekend."

"It's too late." Gold heard his voice crack. "I ruined everything with Belle, I… The label is probably going to fly us back to LA in the morning. They'll want us front and center for as long as the media coverage lasts."

Neal sighed. "Well take care of yourself, alright? And apologize to Belle. And Emma – you never did apologize for what you said when we had Henry. If it goes well, maybe we could try our hand at a family Thanksgiving."

"Thank you," Rum whispered. "Thank you, son."

"I love you, Papa," said Neal after a pause. "Go get 'em."

If only it would be that easy. As soon as Neal hung up, his phone rang. His manager had booked him on the next flight out to LA. He wasn't going to be on that plane, he already knew. There was still too much that he had to do in Storybrooke.

He could miss this flight, he knew, but there would just be another one the next day. They couldn't force him to stand in the middle of a 3-ring circus and make friendly banter with Jones, to act as though the disaster at Belle's shop that morning had been nothing but a tale as old as rock and roll, but he'd have to go back eventually.

He didn't want to.

But it would only be a matter of time before someone at the label low-jacked his phone and started pulling strings in his contract to make him finish the album; Rumford Goldfellow had obligations, and Rum Gold wouldn't be able to hide from them forever. For the first time in his life, he wished that he could have faded into memory; that he'd ended up a sweet weirdo and a great dad, like Jefferson.

"You don't, you know," a voice told him. It sounded familiar.

"Don't what?" muttered Gold. He'd refused to go meet Dove and was too much a coward to face Belle right now. Instead, he'd settled for whiskey number four and had sprawled rather ignobly across one of the green room sofas.

"Don't have to go back to LA."

Gold shot a glare up at the speaker. Jefferson Madden looked as though he hadn't aged a day. Bastard.

"Sorry, but you mumble to yourself when you're drunk," Jeff shrugged. "Always have done. It was annoying then, too."

"They'll drag me back eventually," Gold grimaced. He sat up and tried to straighten his shirt. "And frankly, I don't see how it's any of your business, anyway."

"You'd be surprised what falls on my plate." The other man flopped down next to him, making the whole sofa shake. "Belle's heartbrokenly baking cookies, and Gracie doesn't understand why the bakery's not open today. You're a prickly diva, but you made my friend happy, so that counts for something."

"And you're the great hero who's going to swoop in and fix it, eh?"

"Not hardly," Jefferson winked. "I only wanted to give you this DVD."

After twelve hours of drinking wine, eating chocolate, and commiserating about men, Belle thought she was as close as she was ever going to get to the perfect tricolor cookie. Marco always said that good Italian cooking came from the chef's feelings – he'd never said those feelings had to be nice ones.

They had over twenty pans of the things stacked in every square inch of available fridge space downstairs, and Ariel and Belle finally had to start boxing them into her upstairs freezer. They'd have to open up shop tomorrow, if only to sell the tricolors before they went to waste.

She could manage it. She'd have to face the music – hardi-har-har – and get on with life. Things had been quiet for the last few hours, at least.

Belle was fairly certain that the last reporter camping around her locked door had called it quits after sunset, but her clothes were floury and her eyes were puffy. Crying over cookies could do that to a girl. So she drew the blinds and stayed away from the front window, just to be safe.

"You don't think those animals will come back do you?" asked Belle. She hadn't been frightened in the daylight, but by night the threat of further retaliation felt all too real.

"I doubt it," said Ariel. "But I can stay overnight, if it would make you—"

She stopped mid-phrase.

They heard the faint sound of music coming from the alley. Belle peeked out through the blinds and was wholly unsurprised to see Rum standing under a street lamp.

Belle laughed despite herself (and possibly with a little help from her good friend, chardonnay).

"Alright, John Cusack, what do you want?" shouted Ariel, opening a window.

"Is Belle there?" Gold begged.

"She doesn't want to talk to you!"

"Ariel," Belle hissed, swatting her friend on the arm. "What do you want, Rum?"

"Well, I'd like to come in, for a start," he blushed. "I thought I'd bring the guitar, and make a grand gesture, but to be honest I feel like a bit of a twat. Besides, I think we've both had enough of being stared at in the street today."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Belle replied. "I'm sorry, but I—"

"Dammit!" Rum swore.

"Fuck off!" shouted Ariel.

"No, no, I got this all wrong. Let me try again," he pleaded. The window stayed open, but it was a near thing.

"Belle, I wanted to apologize. That's all. I'm sorry. God, I've buggered it now. I'm sorry for lying to you, and I'm sorry for assuming that you wanted to be rescued, and I'm sorry that I acted like an arse. The truth is, I'm—"

"Okay, okay," Belle called down to him. "You can come up. You're right. We've had more than enough public exposure for one day."

"Are you going to be alright? Do you want me to stay?" Ariel whispered as they trooped down the stairs to let Rum inside.

"I think it'll be fine. Rum's not like those other ones; he'd never hurt me. He'll leave if I tell him to."

Ariel nodded and hugged her tight. "Alright. But you call me if you need anything, okay?"

"Remind me to give you a raise," Belle smiled.

Ariel glared at Rum as they changed places in the doorway, and Belle chained and bolted the door behind her.

"I'm sorry," Rum whispered. "I never meant to hurt you, but I'm a selfish, ugly man who makes poor choices. I acted like I was the best thing that ever happened to you, but the truth is Belle, that you're one of the best things that's ever happened t'me."

"I love you," he added when she didn't say anything.

"But you still have to go," Belle sighed. "It doesn't really change anything."

"I do," he nodded. "But just for a little while. A very old friend of mine gave me something interesting today, and I think I can use it to get out of my contract with HOOK."

"And then where will you go? I don't want you to give up your career for me any more than I want to give up mine for you."

"Do you trust me?" Rum asked her.

Belle winced.

"No, no, that's fine. It's too soon. But please, please give me a week to get my lawyers working on this. Please say you'll see me again when I come back to Storybrooke."

She didn't want to. She wanted to be mad at him, and he would have deserved it – she knew.

"Hamburgers at Granny's next Tuesday?" Belle offered.

"I'd like that," Rum whispered.

In the end, breaking up HOOK without losing his royalties was a piece of cake. Jefferson had security camera footage of Keith talking with the band's publicist, instructing him to leak their location so he could get out of Storybrooke. And did the janitor in that video look a bit like Jefferson Madden? Gold couldn't say. He strongly suspected that it was.

Someone (Rum couldn't imagine who) had put the idea into Smee and Naughty's heads that breaking the non-disclosure agreement would only result in a wrist-slap and a fine. No wonder the press had descended so quickly on their fight: every major gossip rag had already sent a scout up to the little town earlier that night.

They hadn't counted on the tie-ins to Gold's contract, on him taking all of the songs he wrote with him. It was going to set them back at least six months, at minimum, and they needed a new lead guitarist to tour with them.

Normally, Gold would have been furious with Jefferson for meddling (of the myriad reasons why Wizard Lizard broke up in the first place, Jefferson's antics had definitely featured), but age and fatherhood had mellowed the two of them.

He was even considering going back into business with the daft bassist. Apparently, Jeff and Victor both made good money (though Victor was much the silent partner these days) doing bass tracks and remixes for pop stars and DJs. The future, Jeff assured him, was electronic. But they both had more money than they could ever spend, and they both had people at home who needed him. A full-fledged career with months and months spent on the road wouldn't make sense.

Days spent in a studio, producing sounds for other people sounded feasible. He didn't need it to be exciting, he just needed to have his family.

Then Jefferson had said something else to catch his attention: "Or, we could tell the big labels to get stuffed and make the music we like."

It sounded perfect. Now he just had to convince his family of it.

"But you won't be retiring?" Belle asked again. "I don't want you to give up playing, Rum."

"We don't even have a full set list yet, so I'm certainly not in danger of putting my guitar down any time soon. And we'll still do a few shows, I'm sure," Rum smiled, taking her hand across the table. "Just... more of a long weekend, and less of months living on a tour bus. I'm working on getting my life back together, and I'd like you to be part of it."

"I can't believe you moved here at the drop of a hat," Belle frowned. "What would you do if I said I never wanted to see you again?"

"Be devastated. Wait as long as it took for you to give me a chance again. But I'd still be here, making music with Jefferson, for as long as that lasts. And I'm well rid of HOOK, Belle. At least allow me that."

"It's really what you want to do?" she asked.

"Aye, it is that."

Belle took another bite of her hamburger and looked thoughtful. "I guess I still owe you two cinnamon rolls, then."

Fin.


End file.
